Erneut geboren
by Zrigeist
Summary: After the events that occurred 30 years ago, they thought that there were no survivors of the Millennium. They were wrong, and war may rage once again. /On hiatus.


Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing or any of it's characters. This is simply for entertainment.  
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The pile of corpses in the far corner had left the room with an almost intolerably foul stench. In times of desperation, even the most brilliant of minds are forced into such terrible conditions. Decomposition from the massive clumps had caused the moisture from the dead to gather into the air. With no way to escape through the heavy stone walls, the humidity gathered in the air, making it thick and foggy. If a single finger was to touch any surface in the room, they would feel the dampness from the heat and death. The moisture had led to faster rotting, the tissue coming clean off of the bone in chunks and falling onto another form bellow it. The mass itself seemed to pulse with it's own motion, but the dead figures had no life, only the insects that moved through them. They enjoyed their moist feast, thousands of crawling legs, making the dead forms seizure and twitch.

Upon further inspection, just in the opposite corner from the pile, a figured lay in a heap. Flayed and broken, the limbs almost looked twisted, and the body distorted under a long, bloody coat. No signs of breathing were present, and under the conditions of the room it would be easy for one to guess that the body would be dead. This, however, was not the case. In moments, the figure convulsed. Life had stirred in the room, and the body in the corner had pulled itself together from what looked like the broken pieces of a man. He had sat upright, his emaciated torso exposed, and the vinyl from his outfit sticky and wet from blood, sweat, and the humidity of rotting corpses.

With clumps of ratty hair hanging down, it was hard to see any part of a face, with exception of the narrow chin at the bottom of his face visage, and a sharp, pointed nose pushed through the mass of tangles that appeared to have not been brushed in several months. Stretching long legs outward, the man raised his gloved hands to his face. Four fingers on each hand, the ring and pinkie finger merged together. With hands pressed to his face, the man sobbed loudly.

Avondale Napyeer was a broken man. Lowering a hand from his face, he placed the side of his finger in between his teeth to stifle his loud cries. Biting down, his teeth broke the skin under the gloves, the blood bleeding through the white fabric of his surgical gloves.

Tilting his head, he could see the faint outline of his glasses by his feet. The strange spectacles with multiple lens attachments. Somewhere in the time that he had broken down and thrown himself into the corner, they had fallen from his face. This fact did not bother him, because he rather liked the idea that he couldn't see his failures in the corner. The rotted bodies.

The experiments that had not survived. To be honest, none of that them had survived. There were many more cadavers, hundreds had culminated over time. He had buried all the other ones, but at some point, he had stopped caring and just shuffled them off into the pile. These dead angels The body he had worked so hard on. All the bodies, the same face, the same hair, the same forms. They were all meant to be the same person, but not a single one of them had managed to even twitch itself to life. These frustrations were driving him far past the madness that he thought he already peaked when the war waged thirty years ago.

Within moments, he had quieted his cries, dulling them to only quiet sniffs and a few silent tears. Pushing the hair away from his face, the trails of tears and snot had cut through the dirt on his face and made clean paths down towards his chin. His tall form jerked and heaved a few times before he could finally make a true motion. Dragging himself to his hands and knees, he crawled across the stone to his glasses. Fingers fumbling, he reached for the oculars, placing them back upon the bridge of his nose. Though the lenses were fogged and dirty, he could view things just a little more clearer.

Settling down upon his knees, he stared at the corner of the room, just right across from him. The smell didn't bother him in the least; once you're around something long enough, you grow desensitized towards it. The sight didn't bother him at all, either. He witnessed things much worse, back in the 40's, when he had worked at Auschwitz. He missed that facility dearly, and the times when his research had actually led to accomplished experiments. But it was hard to get anything done now.

With literally no funds, and only the scrapings of his equipment that he had left, he had to rebuild a new lab. A lab unfit for what he considered to be his talents. And not only that, but he was truly alone. He'd not exactly cared for his past associates, but at least they kept away the lonely. Not a single scrap of company was found, apart from the feasting insects who only mocked his failure by eating his failed worked. Laughing in his face and showing him that his project was nothing more than food that only the lowliest of creatures would eat.

Avondale grew tired of this room, though he was unsure exactly how much time he had spent there. He had decided that this would be his grave room. Seeing as it was large enough to house all of the failures. He no longer wanted to crawl out of the underground base and burying the damned things. The poor angels that died before their lives could restart.

His face grew stern, thin lips drawing into a straight line as he pulled himself off of the floor. He stood tall, his head almost brushing the low ceilings, and marched away, out through the doorway and into the hallway of stone. He had spent so long in that room that he had forgotten what clean air almost smelled like. It took him by surprise for a moment, but he continued onward through the long hall. The hall that hasn't been used since WW II, beneath the ground was the hidden barracks for the Nazis, directly underneath Sachsenhausen, one of the few old concentration camps left that isn't used as a museum. Even though it's it was abandoned, being above ground was far too risky. The underground was the only place left that he considered safe.

The once grand Professor pushed open the door to his living quarters. It was a large area, but almost nothing filled the space. Papers were stuck to the wall with tape, research papers and sketches for ideas. Along with his ideas were pages ripped from books. Literature, poems, science book pages, medical diaries, history books. There were books all over the room, scattered over the floor, pushed into piles, a large quantity of them. When you've spent ten years underground, you'll need something to do to keep yourself barely sane. The books were good enough for now.

In the back of the room was his bed: a dirty old mattress over a wire and steel frame, covered with a few sheets, all rough and itchy fabric. The kind they used back in the old wars. The sort of bed he had managed to put together from the underground ruins that are now his home.

Sitting on his bed, his broad shoulders slumped and his expression looking tired and worn, he faced the desk next to his bed. On top there sat what looked like a head. It was only that the shattered remains of a robot head. Another one of his creations gone to waste. Not only a creation, but someone he had once considered his superior. Although he never considered him as a friend, it was the closest person that he had. The pudgy, blond head that had given him the freedom to his experiments. His greatest work was when he served this man.

Sighing, he leaned forward, clasping his hands together as though to pray to this head. It was his only piece of hope. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke to the fallen master.

"How do I bring her to life?"


End file.
